


Pants: A Love Story

by Siria



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-13
Updated: 2011-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Steve forever to finish up the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pants: A Love Story

It takes Steve forever to finish up the case—by which he doesn't mean the case _itself_ , solving the actual crime, because they find their drug runners in nine hours and have a full confession secured and delivered to the DA in under eleven. No, it's the paperwork and the governor wrangling and the thousand and one bureaucratic nightmares that go with both those things, the kind of shit he never had to deal with in the SEALs or in naval intel, and if this is what it's like to be a cop without full immunity and means, Steve's at a loss as to why Danny thinks it's a _good_ thing.

Procedure, as far as Steve can tell, is just busywork that makes no goddamn sense, and so he slams the truck door behind him, makes the front door vibrate on its hinges when he kicks it closed. He stomps up the stairs, feeling irritated, wound up, at the kind of loose end he normally resolves by tackling dirty dishes or clogged-up guttering, but the adrenaline is fading from his system and he heads for the bedroom instead. Steve finds he can't even manage to undress properly—can't find it in himself to take off his clothes and leave them neatly folded on the chair by the bedroom door. Form 1J-H45 in triplicate, it seems, is what it takes to defeat the habits of more than two decades, ingrained though they are by military training and a childhood spent in John McGarrett's house. The form has, in fact, removed Steve's ability to take off his own pants without tripping over his feet, and Steve swears, wriggles, ends up with them tangled around his ankles; it takes him at least thirty seconds to kick them off and he gives into the petty urge to stomp on them, leaving them in a wrinkled heap on the floor.

It's made maybe worse, maybe better, by the way Danny's watching them from their bed—Danny, who got his paperwork done hours ago, who didn't have to clench his jaw and swallow back his objections when the governor's office rejected it three times in a row for forgetting to fill in Part 2A (with 'not applicable', because of how it _did not apply_ ) or for incorrect use of apostrophes. Danny, who got to come home early and have dinner with Gracie and is already tucked up under the covers, a dogeared airport thriller in his lap, reading glasses not hiding the way his eyes are crinkled in amusement.

"Babe," Danny says, "not that I don't appreciate the comedy routine, but it'll be the most embarrassing obituary ever to grace the pages of the _Star-Advertiser_ if you're killed by your own pants. I'm just saying."

"I _hate_ pants," Steve spits, knowing he sounds like a five-year-old, but he's past caring. He's tired, he's irritated, his socks are still damp and mud-soaked from their little detour through a river that afternoon, and he peels them off, kicks them and his shirt, his pants and his boots, into the far corner of the room.

Danny's eyebrows shoot upwards. "Ohhhkay, buddy, here's the plan. Go, clean your teeth, pee, wash up, get back here, okay?" When Steve doesn't move at once, Danny points at the en suite, clicks his fingers, says, "Mush, mush."

Steve goes, grumbles, feels hard done by with a mouth full of minty foam; feels the better for scrubbing a hot, damp wash cloth over his face and under his arms. The face that looks back at him in the bathroom mirror when he's done is tired, sporting dark circles under his eyes and two days stubble on his jawline. Maybe he's getting old; maybe this is just what you get when you bust your ass trying to protect your family, your home, and get nothing but pushback in return. He tugs off his boxers, pads back into the bedroom to find that Danny's already pulled back the covers for him. Steve launches himself onto the bed while Danny sticks a bookmark—a Christmas present from Gracie, a laminated sketch showing the Five-0 team at the circus (Steve hasn't asked, but he thinks it's awesome he gets to jump through a ring of fire) in technicolour splendour—into his book, puts the book on the night-stand, and turns off the light.

Danny says, "Operation Steve-the-Goof, Part B, come on, c'mere," arranging them underneath the covers so that Danny's on his back and Steve's tucked right up beside him, his head resting against Danny's shoulder. Danny cups Steve's head in one big hand, digs his fingers into Steve's hair, blunt nails scritching big, loose circles into his scalp. His free arm loops over Steve's waist, resting warm and callused and steady right over Steve's tattoo. Steve closes his eyes for the first time in what seems like days, feels the muscles in his shoulders shiver and twitch as tension he hadn't even been aware of leaches away at Danny's touch.

Danny is very meticulous and very careful. He doesn't speak while he works along the curve of Steve's skull, down the nape of his neck, along his shoulder, while he kisses Steve's temple, but he hums under his breath: soft songs that Steve doesn't recognise but that he appreciates nonetheless.

Steve drifts, falls, relaxes into the warmth of Danny's body; and just before he lets himself go, mutters, "Still hate pants."

Danny huffs, says, "Shut up, you miscreant nudist, I'll buy you a new pair, go to sleep before I wrap 'em around your _head_ "—and Steve knows _I love you, too_ when he hears it, sleeps with a smile on his face.


End file.
